Broke, Part II.

One of the funny things about being poor, especially nouveau poore as Steve and I were, is that we really didn't think about how our freshly-downsized status made other people feel. Selfish, I know, but we didn't realize how our situation would have a strong impact on other people's hostility levels.

This was one of the things Steve and I had been insulated from when we were still hanging onto the middle class ladder. Naively, I had no idea that bashing the poor was such a recreational sport, binding Christians, conservatives, liberals, and feminists all together.

Not all doctors take public aid, so when we went on it we lost several of the people we'd been seeing, including our dentist. I was okay with this, because our former dentist would attack my self-esteem as vigorously as he went after plaque. "Your teeth really need to be whitened," he said. "I'm seeing a lot of trouble here. And your fillings all need to be replaced. Your gums are almost diseased. We'll need to take care of that."

These revelations were startling to me, because I've visited the dentist every six months since I've had teeth, I brush three times a day, I don't eat a lot of sugar or drink soda, and I floss. It was disturbing to think these good habits were for nothing.

We went to another dentist, and I had forgotten the paperwork proving we were on aid.

"We don't just see welfare recipients!" shouted the receptionist, and everyone in the waiting room turned to look at us. "You need to bring proof of your welfare status! Call your caseworker about getting the proper paperwork! The dentist can't see you! Take your kids and go home!"

And we trailed past all the other patients who either had insurance or had their paperwork properly done, and slinked away.

Once home, I called First Family Dental, the Andersonville practice in the city I went to when we lived in the neighborhood. I explained our predicament, and the receptionist said yes, come in. We'll clean the kids' teeth for free, because Illinois has universal health care for children. Send the paperwork in when you can. As for you, we'll charge you $40, okay? Okay!

So we started driving into the city, scheduling Alex's psychiatric appointments at Children's memorial on the same day as the dental appointments for the kids and me. The staff is very good to us, but due to our financial status and the fact that it's always me with the kids, they seem to be under the impression that I'm a single mother.

"We've taken care of the whole family again!" they chirp.

Even more notable is the praise I get from the staff. How unbelievably clean my children's teeth are! Is it possible that they've been taught good dental habits? They brush twice a day? Wow! And as for my teeth, well, they're amazing. My gums are great, my teeth are white and shiny, and my fillings are hanging in there nicely.

"So evidently I've got bag lady teeth for a rich person, but movie star teeth for a poor person," I told Steve.

"Interesting," he said. "Who do you believe?"

Who indeed?

If doctors are bad, so is the grocery store. Yesterday I mentioned the Link card, which works like a credit card that saves time and keeps your status on the down low. Of course, this depends on who you get at the register. The first week I had to use it, (which, middle class upbringing that I have, I cried all morning before going shopping, out of pre-embarrassment embarrassment) my fears were realized when the cashier at Dominick's, a petite woman in her fifties with spiky blonde hair, yelled out spitefully, "Oh, you've got a Link card! How much did the government put on there for you?"

As I stood there, feeling kind of like Carrie White covered with the slimy pig blood of humiliation but with no ability to wreak a satisfying, flaming revenge, I saw another one of the cashiers looking at me steadily. It's going to be okay, her eyes said.

I knew who this cashier was. I remembered her from a few months ago when I was in her checkout line, right behind a man who wanted to turn in his glass Oberweiss milk bottle for a .50 cent deposit.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but you have to turn in the bottles at the customer service desk, and they're closed right now."

"Right, they're closed now," he said snottily. "So you'll have to take it."

"Sir, I can't," she said. "I don't have room back here for glass bottles, and I'll run the risk of breaking them. We're not allowed to put the bottles behind the register, and I can't justify the missing fifty cents because the system won't recognize it. I really can't give you the money. You'll have to come back tomorrow."

At this point he started screaming, "What am I going to do with this bottle? Huh? You tell me! I came all the way over here to turn in this bottle, and now you're not going to help me? That's stupid, is what that is! That's really bad customer service! No wonder you're just a checkout girl! And you're not even very good at that! I'm going to let your manager know exactly how you've treated me today, and I'll have your job! We'll see how high and mighty you are, then!"

And he stormed off, leaving me and the customer behind me gaping in disbelief. I looked at the cashier. Her jaw had jutted out defiantly, but tears had pearled onto her lashes.

"I'm so sorry," I said gently. "He shouldn't have treated you like that."

"He doesn't bother me!" she said truculently, the shaking in her voice betraying her words, "he can't hurt me."

"I know," I said, "but I'll make sure to tell your manager how valuable you are, just in case."

"He can't get me fired," she said, her eyes not meeting mine. "That won't happen."

I looked into her tired, pale face. Her eyes had dark circles under them, and worry lines were prominent around her mouth. Her thinning brown hair had gone uncut for years. The Milk Bottle Man thought nothing of threatening her job over fifty cents before leaping into his illegally parked BMW and blasting off. She needed that job desperately, and the thought that she could lose it all over fifty stupid cents must have caused her no undue stress. If she gave him the money, she could lose her job. If she didn't give him the money, she could lose her job. When the rich go after the poor, the poor lose. Just ask the video clerk who was treated rudely by Tucker Carlson, and decided not to take it.

It doesn't matter whether or not she was right, she'd get the shaft all the same.

So the next time I had to use the Link card, I made sure to stand in her line.

When I presented the card, she covered my hand with hers to take it, swiped it through quickly, and deftly handed it back, still obscured in her palm.

"Thank you so much for coming in, Mrs. Wilson," she said. "Would you like me to help you with your groceries?"

I'd been feeling very low about life, and I can't describe how much her small gesture of protectiveness meant to me, and how important it was to her to make sure she gave me back the dignity the other cashier had taken. She knew how it felt.

I've made sure to stand in her line ever since, even now that we have no Link card and our health insurance is good enough for me to suddenly have bad teeth again.

Last Christmas, Christopher and I were shopping for the holiday meal, when I heard the sound of someone yanking a bow across a violin. Eventually the sawing sounds took the shape of a Christmas carol.

"Good god," I thought as I rounded the corner to see who was making the noise.

It was my cashier, sitting on a small mountain of Coke cases. She was seated right next to the checkout lines, violin tucked under her chin, her eyes closed. A sheet of Christmas music for beginners was open on the music stand in front of her.

A coworker passed by. "Oh, look at you, Susan," she said, "that's wonderful!"

Susan didn't respond, but the corners of her mouth turned up as she kept playing.

Hither come, ye heavy-hearted,
Who for sin, Deep within,
Long and sore have smarted;
For the poisoned wound you're feeling
Help is near, One is here
Mighty for their healing.

I watched her face as it glowed with the pleasure of the music. She had no way of knowing the lyrics to the melody she played had an entirely different meaning to me, and how appropriate it was that she was the one playing it.

For the poisoned wound you're feeling
Help is near, One is here
Mighty for their healing.